Two Men in a Boat
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Mark does his standup routine sitting down. The judge aims for somewhere between Baja and Vancouver.


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine; I make no profit from them.

Rated: K+

Author's note: This one's for Cheri—muse _and _beta.

It's a missing scene from "Do Not Go Gentle," the part between being set adrift in the dinghy and being back in the den, pondering the vagaries of tennis court contractors.

**Two Men in a Boat**

By L. M. Lewis

_Day after day, day after day,  
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;  
As idle as a painted ship, upon a painted ocean_.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge--Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Offered the choice between walking back to shore and rowing, McCormick had wisely chosen the latter. He'd even taken over the judge's oar. It really seemed more of a one man project in a dinghy that small.

"Hey, Judge, I think I found another cure for seasickness," he said, as he settled into a cadence that he thought he could sustain for what was left of the dwindling daylight.

"Oh, yeah, what's that?" the older man was sitting in the stern of the little boat, but facing forward.

"Getting the crap beat out of you by pirates. It really works."

"Yeah, well, it's that distraction thing again," the judge was squinting off to the east. "And I told you, you shouldn't've taken them on like that. You're lucky they didn't just toss you overboard."

"This is not a big improvement." McCormick glanced over his shoulder; the view looked no different than the last time he'd snuck a peek. "How far is it back?"

The judge had been vaguely reassuring the first time he'd asked that question. 'Depends on which way the current's moving,' he'd said. That had been almost an hour ago.

"So, which way _is_ the current moving?" McCormick added, trying to circumvent that particular evasion this time around.

"Northward, this time of year," the judge replied calmly.

_Very calmly. Unnaturally calmly. _Gone were the remarks about horse latitudes and doldrums. That had been yesterday, when they'd had a month's supplies stowed inside a state-of-the-art million-dollar vessel. McCormick eyed the other man.

"So, about where _were_ we when we walked the plank?" he asked, keeping his tone consistent with casual interest.

"Oh, west of the Santa Barbara Channel . . . a bit," the judge replied. Still calm.

"How big a 'bit'?"

"Maybe eighteen miles, or a little more."

McCormick digested this for another ten strokes of the oars. He was trying to picture the nautical map they'd been using right before the attack. The Channel Islands to the south--Santa Rosa and Santa Cruz--and the mainland to the north. In between was the Santa Barbara Channel, thirty miles wide. If they were out of the channel in the open ocean to the west, then—

"What's north of us, now, Judge?"

The momentary silence was disturbing. McCormick counted three more strokes before the judge answered.

"Lompoc, if we're lucky."

"And if we're not?" McCormick inquired cautiously. Luck had not always been his strong suit.

"Well," Hardcastle sighed, "Point Sur, maybe San Francisco."

"Frisco?" McCormick sputtered, "That's a couple hundred _miles_." He looked over his shoulder again and saw the same, vast, unchanging horizon of water. "Ju-udge."

"But there's always the Aleutians," Hardcastle sighed again, even more wearily. "So don't give up hope."

Mark jerked his head back around and squinted narrowly at the older man, fairly certain he was being had. If it was back to this, then Lompoc must be a pretty good bet.

"We need to get back into the channel," Hardcastle said, in an altogether different tone. "If we get north of Pt. Arguello, we could be in for a long drift. We've got enough water for a couple of days; that's the most important thing--that and the weather holding. You want me to row for a while?"

McCormick shook his head once.

"Why not?" the judge protested. "I keep tellin' ya; I feel fine. You're the one who had the dust-up with the pirates."

McCormick shrugged. "I'll row, you steer. Business as usual."

00000

_Business as usual_, the judge thought. Only someone like McCormick could be plunked down in a rowboat, sixty miles out from port, and come to that conclusion. He'd had pretty much the same attitude when they'd landed the hard way up in Oregon a few months back. Hardcastle wasn't sure if it was more gumption or blind faith. He had a sneaking feeling that it was the latter, and he was damned if he could figure out how he'd earned _that_.

"Okay, so the Lone Ranger and Tonto are riding down the trail--"

"Huh?" the judge was yanked back to the here-and-now by the kid's voice.

"It's a joke, Judge. I'm telling a joke. Listen--"

"You shouldn't joke about the Lone Ranger," Hardcastle said with as straight a face as he could muster.

"Stop interrupting," McCormick frowned. "So they're riding down the trail and Tonto says, 'Kemosabe, I see the tracks of many horses.' And The Lone Ranger says, 'Don't worry, Tonto, just keep moving.' And after a little while Tonto climbs down off Scout and puts his hand on the ground and says, 'Kemosabe, I feel the beat of many horses,' but The Lone Ranger says, 'Don't _worry_, Tonto, let's just keep moving,' and then, a few minutes later, Tonto says, 'Kemosabe, I _hear_ the sound of many horses,' and The Lone Ranger gives him one of _those_ looks and says, 'Tonto, didn't I tell you there's nothing to worry about? Just keep moving.'

"'And right after that, about ten thousand Comanches come riding over the hill straight for them, and The Lone Ranger turns to Tonto and says, 'My friend, I see no way out of this; I think we're doomed.'

"And Tonto turns to him and says--"

"'Whaddaya mean '_we', _paleface?'" the judge pitched in right on the beat.

"Hey," McCormick looked indignant. "You stole my punch line."

"It's a very old joke. You sure you don't want me to row for a while?'

"Maybe later." McCormick paused for a moment while he wiped his face.

"Well," Hardcastle scanned the unchanging horizon one more time and then gave the younger man a considering gaze, "I am sorry I got you into _this_."

"You know, Judge," Mark reached for the oars again and bent back to his task. "I kinda remember this being partly my idea."

"No, not the _boat_," Hardcastle grimaced, "the pirates."

"Oh, well, that, you were just being . . . _nice_." The look on the younger man's face was equal parts annoyance and amazement, as if he couldn't believe the words himself. "But from now on, I'd kinda like you to leave me in charge of paranoia."

The judge smothered another smile at this complaint. It, and the joke, had been as close as McCormick had come to saying 'I told you so,' and that meant he wasn't the only one being _nice_ these days. The only difference was: Hardcastle knew his own little lapse in character judgment had landed them both in a real pickle. He lifted his head, straining his eyes to the southeast, searching for Santa Rosa.

"I'll row, just for a while, okay?" he said again, more insistently, and this time Mark nodded wearily and shipped the oars.

They traded places clumsily. The judge took up the cadence--he really didn't feel ill at all--and the kid settled down in the stern. The weather had graced them with a near dead-calm and, after another few moments, McCormick asked, "So, how _do_ you steer?"

The judge laughed. "The sun, just keep your shadow lined up, a little to port."

"That's _all_?" McCormick looked a little peeved.

"Well, it's a big coast. I'll settle for anything between Baja and Vancouver." Hardcastle was facing westward now, as he rowed, and could see the sun going down in flames, amid a cloudbank, "but we aren't gonna have _that_ for much longer. Then we'll steer by the stars."

"Ahh, like the Ancient Mariner."

"I hope not. You don't have any dead albatrosses in your closet, do ya, kiddo?"

"None that I'm gonna tell _you_ about, Hardcase."

Twilight passed into night. There was no moon, but there was a faint lightening of the sky, all in the east. Nothing to the north. Hardcastle frowned. Every once in a while they watched a plane go over--commercial flights from LAX, still not at full altitude, but a dismal reminder of how near could still be too far. The pirates had removed the emergency flares and the transponder from the dinghy. At least they'd left the food and water.

"You hungry?" he could see the barest details of McCormick's face, now that his eyes were dark-adapted. The kid was staring up to the north. _Lining up the pole star._

"Not for Vietnam-era energy bars," the younger man made a face. "That's gonna take a couple more hours. Water, though. How much can we drink?"

It was Hardcastle's turn to make a face. "Depends. I think we should maybe plan on three days. Just in case. But you should eat, too. The rowing's important."

He could see the movements of a nod, but not the expression that went with it.

"Hey, Judge?" McCormick had turned toward him now. He could see the kid's face more clearly. "You'd tell me if we were really in trouble, right?" There was concern in the voice, but not out-right worry. "I mean, this isn't going to turn into one of those Reader's Digest stories where everything is going along just fine and then, wham, all of a sudden they're in really deep?

_I thought we passed that point about five hours ago, _Hardcastle mused, but out loud he said, "How bad do you want it to be before I clue you in?"

"Before the ten thousand Comanches come over the hill." McCormick grinned. "That'd be best . . . I hate getting snuck up on."

"Okay," Hardcastle promised. "I'll give you a signal."

He saw the kid's gaze drift northward again, looking up toward the North Star. Hardcastle studied the still-dark northern horizon—no glimmer to be seen.

"So, the Lone Ranger and Tonto are out riding across the desert and they stop to make camp--"

"Not another one," the judge groaned. "How many of them do you know?"

"Shhh. Anyway, _you _knew the last one, too. And, where was I? Oh, yeah, they make camp, pitch a tent, build a fire, eat supper, and go to sleep.

"Then about three in the morning, Tonto nudges the Lone Ranger and says, 'Kemosabe, see all those stars up there? What that make you think?'

"And the Lone Ranger looks up at the night sky and says, 'Well, Tonto, I see those stars and I think about the millions of planets that might be circling them, how insignificant we are down here on this one little rock, and how all-powerful must be the Creator of all of this. And I think since Orion is over on my left, it must be about three in the morning. And I think since I can see the morning star over to the west, we're going to have a pretty nice day tomorrow.'

"Then the Lone Ranger looks over at Tonto and asks, 'What do they make you think?'

"And Tonto gives him one of _those_ looks and says, 'Well, Kemosabe, they make _me_ think somebody stole the damn tent.'"

The judge turned the laugh into something more closely resembling a 'harrumph' and then asked, "So, how many of those _do_ you know?"

"Lots," McCormick grinned.

"Are they _all_ that bad?"

"No, some are worse. But don't worry; I'm used to playing to a tough crowd--I can't be discouraged with anything short of threats of physical violence."

There was a pause. McCormick was looking up at the stars again.

"Is that how you did it?" Hardcastle asked, after a moment. "You told jokes?"

"Huh?" the kid looked back down abruptly. "Oh . . . yeah, I guess. Sometimes. Beats going crazy."

"Do you suppose it's genetic?" the judge half-muttered.

"God," Mark looked startled. "I never thought of that." He shook his head once. "Me as a lounge lizard," he said solemnly, "now there's a scary thought." Then he grinned. "Nope, I've usually had captive audiences . . . I think you should let me row for a while."

00000

They switched places again, McCormick feeling every one of his thirty-one years as he leaned into the oars. He wondered how the judge was doing. Truth was, he'd been watching for _signs_ for the past five days. There was nothing obvious. He oughtn't have let him row, but refusing him a turn would have been . . . _insulting._ And besides, neither one of them needed the aggravation of an argument right now.

He'd watched the man watching the north horizon with ever increasing gravity the past few hours, and he'd gathered that things were dicey. _Not that the judge would ever admit it. 'Loose lips sink ships.' _

_Hah. Just row._

But his next thought, very nearly random, come out almost before it was fully formed. "So maybe the bad jokes are a kind of legacy."

"Well," the judge smiled, "at least you came by it honest."

"I mean, the most important legacy is not _stuff_; it's the parts of you that you leave behind--the effect you had on other people, what they remember you for.

"From _him_ I got the inability to forget a joke. Once I've heard 'em, I'm stuck with them, no matter how bad." He shuddered, "Maybe it _is_ genetic. But that's all the legacy he has, then, because I've tried like hell all my life to not be like him . . . even when I didn't really know who he was."

"And your mother?"

Mark paused for a moment in mid-stroke, leaning on the oars. He smiled. "For kindness . . . Her family treated her like dirt, and she never let it make her mean." Then he dug back in again on the forward sweep.

"Then she has her legacy, too," the judge said quietly.

00000

He glanced again at the invisible northern horizon and then watched McCormick dig in with the oars as though every stroke was the difference between Lompoc and the Aleutians. He'd somehow gotten the message that the rowing was important. _So, what is your legacy?_

_Tenacity?_

_Nope, he already had that._

"Can I ask you a question, Judge?"

_No_, he thought. _Not about Tommy._ And then, just as quickly, he said, "Sure." After all, he'd gotten the kid set adrift in the Pacific Ocean, with pretty equal chances of either drowning or dying of thirst; the least he could do would be to answer a question.

If the conflict had been externally visible, McCormick showed no awareness of it. He was still working the slow, strong cadence on the oars when he asked, "What was your father like?"

"Oh," the judge hoped his astonishment had not come out in that one sudden syllable. "My_ father_?" He pondered this for a moment. "Well, he was very strong--"

"Strong?"

"Yup, worked sunup to sunset, just to make ends meet. He had a family to feed. That's how it was back then. You know, for those southern small farmers, the Depression was something that started during the Civil War and went clear through to World War II." The judge pulled up short, knowing, somehow, that he wasn't answering the question.

"Okay," he said abruptly, "he wasn't a real emotional guy . . . but there was this time once, see, when the ends just wouldn't meet; this was in the middle of the _real_ Depression--couldn't get thirty cents for a bushel of corn.

"So, my dad went to _his_ uncle, to try and get a loan to float us through. I'd just turned sixteen, and my great-uncle asks why the hell my dad still had me lollygagging around in school, even playing basketball--for God's sake--when I old enough to be pulling my weight on the farm. And my dad—you know I heard this from Aunt Zora later on—well, he said thank you very much, but my son's gonna finish school . . . He wanted me to have some chances he hadn't had."

"Did he get the loan?"

"Nope . . . but I made damn sure he never regretted it."

"There, see?" McCormick smiled. "I'll be he never even _saw_ a Treasury note, but he left a legacy, too. Did he live long enough to see you become a judge?"

"No," Hardcastle shook his head. "Died suddenly. Had a stroke. He was out on the tractor when it happened. I hadn't even told him I was starting law school."

There was a pause, then Hardcastle heard the words, "Why not?" A little breathless, maybe. The kid was getting tired.

" I dunno; I guess I didn't want to have to go back and explain if I screwed up," the judge smiled ruefully. "I was a cop, the son of a dirt-poor farm family. What the hell was I doing, thinking I could be a lawyer?"

There was no reply to this, just the slow, steady creak and splash of the oars and McCormick's face turned upward and to the north.

"I'll row for a while," Hardcastle offered.

Just a shake of the head. And then, after a few minutes more. "Why don't you try and get some sleep. You can spell me later on."

00000

Someone was nudging him—a foot against his knee. He felt the rocking motion of the boat and knew, before he opened his eyes, where he was. Hardcastle blinked a couple of times and lifted his head off the edge of the dinghy.

"What time is it?"

"It's a little after three." He heard a weary chuckle from the younger man. "Orion's on your left, Kemosabe." McCormick was leaning on the oars. "Actually, that's the problem. It's not."

Hardcastle looked up and saw a high cloud cover had blotted out the southern two thirds of the stars and was encroaching on the rest. He frowned, scanning the horizon again.

"I've been looking," McCormick assured him. "Nothing so far. So, how do we steer now?"

"We don't," the judge looked at the other man. "We take a break."

"But--"

"Better to drift, than to row in the wrong direction."

"Okay," McCormick looked wistfully over his shoulder at the absolutely nothing that was visible. Then he shipped the oars without any further protest.

"Don't worry." Hardcastle tried to sound reassuring. "The sun'll be coming up in a couple of hours. We can steer by that, clouds or no clouds. Trade places. I'll keep an eye on things for a while."

They switched positions, a little more experienced at the procedure now--less water to be bailed when they were finished. McCormick settled down into the stern, mindless of the remaining bilge, curled on his side with his head on his arm.

The judge propped himself against the rowing bench, again scanning northward.

"So, the Lone Ranger and Tonto walk into a bar and order a couple of beers--"

"Go to sleep."

"But this is a funny one, Judge, _really_."

"Tell me later," Hardcastle smiled.

00000

He awoke to the distinct impression that someone had splashed cold water in his face. Cold salt water. That and both his shoulders had been wrenched out of their sockets. He opened his eyes blearily, then pulled himself up by the nearest vertical surface, which was the sidewall of an inflatable dinghy.

He leaned back against the stern and blinked a couple of times, clearing his vision, and his mind, enough to comprehend that it was full daylight on a hazy day. A slight chop sent the occasional slosh of water into the boat when the timing was just right. Hardcastle was rowing steadily. Mark felt a twinge of guilt as he wondered for just how long.

"You sleep okay?"

McCormick nodded. "What time is it?"

"Little after nine. You gonna eat something?"

"Sounds good." McCormick reached for the supply box nestled down in the corner of the boat, and scrabbled inside for one of the ancient and venerable food bars. He offered a second to Hardcastle.

"Nah, after we switch places."

McCormick nodded and chewed. The texture and flavor were interesting, somewhere between beef jerky and corduroy. He finished almost half before he had to rest his jaw. He stared at the gnawing marks he'd made and then said, "So they're sitting there, drinking their beers--"

"Who are?"

"The Lone Ranger and Tonto . . . in the bar. You told me to tell you later."

Hardcastle rolled his eyes. McCormick plunged ahead.

"And it's a very hot day. So, in walks this cowboy, see, and he says, 'Who owns that big white horse out front with the fancy bridle?' And the Lone Ranger turns around and says, "That's my horse, stranger. Why?' 'Well,' says the cowboy, he gets a little nervous, seeing as it's a guy sitting in a bar with a mask on and all, 'I just wanted to tell you, your horse ain't lookin' so good.'

"So, the Lone Ranger and Tonto jump up and run outside, and there's Silver, standing in the sun, looking like he's about to pass out. It's a very hot day. Tonto goes and fetches a bucket of water, and the Lone Ranger moves Silver over under a tree for some shade, and takes his saddle off. They throw some of the water on the horse, and they give him the rest to drink. But Silver still doesn't look too good.

"Just about then, the Lone Ranger notices it's a very calm day, no wind, so he looks at Tonto and says, 'Hey, Tonto, would you mind running in circles here around Silver--see if you can't stir up a little breeze, to cool him off some more?' And Tonto, faithful Indian companion, says, 'Sure, no problem, Kemosabe,' and starts running.

"The Lone Ranger steps back and watches for a little bit. The breeze seems to be helping. He realizes there's not a whole lot left he can do and, well, he's really worked up a thirst taking care of the horse, so he goes back in the bar to finish his beer.

"After he's sitting there a couple more minutes, another cowboy walks in and says, 'Who owns that big white horse over there, under the tree?' And the Lone Ranger turns around--kinda mad, cause he'd really like to get through one beer without an interruption--and he says, "_I_ do, and what the hell is the problem _now_?'

"And the cowboy backs off just a little and says, "Nothin', mister, just wanted to let you know, you left your injun running."

There was a long moment of silence, and two more stokes of the oar.

"But _I'm_ the one doing the rowing, here," the judge said, with an absolutely straight face.

"Aw, come on, Judge," McCormick smiled. "It wouldn't make any sense if you said 'You left your Kemosabe running.' And I'll switch places with you." He stuffed the rest of the food bar into his pocket and started to move forward stiffly, reaching for one of the oars.

Hardcastle moved into position at the stern. "Well," he said, transferring the other oar to the younger man, "_that_ one wasn't very funny."

"The truth never is," McCormick was grinning now, even though for the first couple of strokes he felt like his shoulders were in a vise. "And does this mean you're admitting the _other_ two were funny?"

Hardcastle frowned, finally conceding, "Maybe the first one." Then he said, "Don't you want to know where we are?"

McCormick stopped rowing for a moment and looked around. "Besides in the ocean? You mean you got it narrowed down a little more?" he asked hopefully.

Hardcastle nodded once. "I saw the lights off Point Conception a little before dawn, still pretty far to the north. We're in the channel." He smiled with satisfaction.

"Good steering," Mark was smiling back. "I wasn't worried."

"Good rowing," The judge replied. "Better than the jokes, that's for sure." He shook his head. "The currents are a little weird in here," he added quickly, "but there's not much that's westerly. We should toss up somewhere, or maybe we'll get picked up by a boat. There's a lot of 'em out here."

"As long as they're not pirates." McCormick shuddered, only half in jest. "Can't let 'em steal the dinghy."

Hardcastle laughed. "One bad experience and you get all paranoid . . . It was an _adventure_."

And McCormick gave him one of _those_ looks.


End file.
